


Waiting on the Sun to Rise

by sleepypercy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, F/M, Hand Jobs, M/M, Sex, Teenage!Sam, Underage Sex, case!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 23:23:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2600171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepypercy/pseuds/sleepypercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam's brother busts up his shoulder on a hunt, their father replaces him with a recommendation from Bobby, leaving Dean to look after Sam. Stuck in the rainy backwoods of Ohio and unable to help the way he feels about his brother, Sam does his best to hold onto any part of his brother that Dean is willing to sacrifice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sam and Dean Mini Bang 2014. Please check out [Risowator's](http://risowator.tumblr.com/) beautiful art for this on [Tumblr](http://risowator.tumblr.com/tagged/sleepypercy) as well!

Sam can pick out the sound of the Impala from three blocks away. Three-hundred-and-twenty-seven cubic inches of engine inside a Chevrolet hood, purring with a healthy rumble that came from having two mechanics in the family.

Usually, Sam finds the sound comforting. Like Dean’s voice soothing him after a bad dream or his dad’s boots entering their motel room after a long hunt that should have ended weeks earlier. It’s been in the family longer than either Sam or Dean, and while Sam sometimes resents being stuck inside the cramped steel frame that only gets smaller with every mile on the road, he can’t deny that it’s the only thing that’s ever felt like home.

Right at this moment, however, the sound of it coming to his school isn’t particularly welcome.

“Get in,” Dean orders through the passenger window when he pulls up to the curb. “Dad’s got us on research-detail tonight. He’s at a dead end with whatever’s snatching clubbers and guinea pigs, so we’ll be on the clock as soon as we get home.”

Sam’s jaw sets in a hard line before Dean even finishes speaking. “No,” he says, watching the knuckles of Dean’s hands turn bone-white as he grips the steering wheel tighter. They’d had the exact same fight this morning, and Dean’s obviously still pissed. “Look, I already told Dad that I was going to this dance. You guys can do without me for one night.”

“Like hell we can,” Dean growls. “You’re the only one that can make heads or tails of that ancient Syrian text and you know it. We need you.”

“You always ‘need me,’” Sam parrots back resentfully. “You and Dad used to do this kind of stuff all the time without me. You can survive one night by yourselves. I just want _one night_ , Dean. To do something normal, for a change. Something that doesn’t involve painting warding symbols in blood or lighting corpses on fire. Something I could actually tell everyone at school about if they ask what I did this weekend.”

Dean snorts and shakes his head. “ _Really_? One night?” His blunt fingertips start tapping the steering wheel irritably. Sam recognizes the hard, staccato beats as John Paul Jones bass lines, their rhythms so deeply ingrained inside Dean that he probably doesn’t even realize he’s drumming them out. “So you’re telling me that if you get one night to do what you want, you’ll stop whining about all the weapons training and monster research and _hunting_ we do?”

The scorn in his brother’s voice is about as subtle as a Vegas streetwalker. It grates up Sam’s spine with the jarring disconcertion of a dog having its fur rubbed the wrong way, irritating him enough to make him snap back, “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Awesome,” Dean replies, his hand coming up in a swift, sharp movement to put his car back into drive. “Fuckin’ awesome. If that’s what it takes to stop the bitching, I’m game. But you better get your ass back home the _second_ that dance ends.” Without waiting for confirmation, Dean turns his face forward, engine gunning and tires spinning as he drives off. Sam glares at the tail-end of the Impala, hating how Dean views every scrap of normalcy Sam tries to cling to as a personal attack on their family. It’s not about Dad. Or even Dean.

Except for how everything always ends up being about Dean.

  __

  
The motel room is empty when Sam gets back, and he immediately checks the back of the door to find the note Dean had taped there.

_Went out to gank the thing – Encantado. Don’t open the door for anyone until we get back. And don’t touch my pie._

Sam crumples up the note and throws it in the garbage before wandering over to the table, popping open the plastic lid on Dean’s pie and poking a finger in the whipped cream. Sucking it into his mouth, Sam savors the taste of cheap defiance then wanders over to his bed, not bothering to replace the lid.

He flops onto his back, staring at the ceiling and trying to decide if he feels any different. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to. Physically speaking, everything is pretty much the same as before. Mentally… he isn’t sure yet. He doesn’t regret it. But it’s left him feeling almost emptier than before.

He’s still sorting things out when he hears the door open followed by the sound of heavy boots and the drop of weapon-filled bags.

He knows the moment Dean finds the pie, hears the quick, hissed _sonofabitch_ and feels the floor shake as Dean stomps towards their shared room. But before Dean can reach the door, Sam overhears the low rumble of their father’s voice, and when the door opens, he can tell, even without moving his head to look, that it’s his dad in the doorway.

“Coulda used you today,” his dad states, voice quiet and simple. The tone holds traces of disappointment, but the anger Sam was expecting isn’t there.

He grunts in reply.

Sighing, his dad steps closer, and Sam turns his head just a little, immediately noticing the well-worn fatigue in his father’s entire frame. Not that it’s anything new; revenge is a heavy mantle that had sunk heavy and deep into John’s bones years ago, and Sam can’t really remember his father as anything but perpetually tired.

“Dean’s gonna be in a sling for a while,” John informs his youngest son. He pauses, and Sam knows the next words are calculated. “You enjoy the dance?”

“Yeah,” Sam shoots back then softens his tone slightly and adds, “Yes, sir.”

His father is standing next to the bed, and when Sam tips his chin up to look his dad in the eye, he sees some kind of realization flash across his father’s face before he reaches down to pat Sam on the shoulders.

“I guess you must have,” John declares in a gruff voice, his eyes narrowed in assessment. “Were you smart about it, son?”

“Yes sir.”

His dad nods and smiles fondly through his apparent exhaustion. “Lemme grab you a beer,” he finally says, walking out of the room.

Dean comes in a few minutes later with an opened bottle that he holds out for Sam to take. As soon as Sam’s fingers tighten around the neck, Dean steps back and frowns.

“So you flaked out on us so you could go and get laid,” he says in a flat voice, rolling his shoulder back and adjusting himself in the sling.

Sam frowns as he takes a swig of the alcohol then shakes his head at the accusation in his brother’s voice. “No. I didn’t even know it was going to happen. But yeah, I got laid. What’s wrong with that?”

Sam can just about feel the storm clouds brewing in his brother’s expression right before Dean spits out, “I don’t understand your fascination with that picket-fence, apple-fucking-pie life. You do realize that _nobody’s_ life is normal, right? Every family fucks up their kids. At least our lives are about _helping_ people.”

“Our lives are about revenge,” Sam points out heatedly. “And Dad has you wrapped up so tight in his crusade that you can’t even see how messed up our lives really are. I’m sixteen. I should be dating and hanging out with kids my age and getting ready for college. Why can’t I have any of that?” Huffing in frustration, Sam looked up through his bangs and adds, “Hell, why can’t _you_?”

Dean looks a little startled when Sam tosses out that last suggestion, like he’s never really thought about it. But then his face darkens and he replies, “Because I care about this family. And family means we watch out for each other. Even if I have to skip a _dance_ just to have their back.”

“Can you get off _my_ back for once?” Sam shoots back. “Dammit, Dean, what would you do if I decided to go off on my own? I do have a choice, you know. I’ll be legal in less than two years.”

If it were possible, Dean looks even more stunned at this suggestion than the last. Sam feels something drop in his gut, heavy like guilt but with a double-edged sharpness that he can’t take back because he’d meant what he said. Some part of Sam knows he can’t continue to live his life under his father’s dictator-thumb, expected to just fall in line and blindly follow orders.

Sam holds out his beer like a peace offering and his brother takes a few grateful swigs.

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice deepens to a hoarse rumble, and he passes the bottle back to Sam. Leaning into the side of the bed, Dean sighs and scrubs his un-hurt hand across his face. The exhaustion from the hunt, combined with whatever pain killers Dean had stashed away, looks like it’s finally hitting his brother, and Dean lets his hip rest on the edge of the bed. “And you’re right, you should be able to have some normal experiences when you can. So…” Clearing his throat awkwardly, Dean carefully averts his eyes and asks, “Was he, uh…” he winces slightly, “…pretty?”

“What?” Sam’s hazel-eyes are startled and wide, and he stutters a little as he says, “N-no, Dean. I’m not ga—it was a-a girl. And yeah…” He takes a breath and his voice goes quiet. “She was pretty.”

“You gonna see her again?”

There’s a guilty look in Dean’s eyes, like he knows he’s ruined a moment that should have been special. But it’s too late to take it back now, and Sam shakes his head, feeling that razor blade sarcasm enter his tone as he replies, “No. Doesn’t matter anyway; job’s done. We’re just gonna blow outta this shit town like we do everywhere.” It’s mean, Sam knows it, but he can’t seem to stop the anger from cutting deeper, can’t stop himself from thickening the cynicism and adding, “Am I a real Winchester? Now that I get to fuck ‘em and leave ‘em like you and Dad?”

“ _Sam_ —” Dean’s voice growls in warning, although he doesn’t sound nearly as pissed as he should be.

“Nevermind.” Sam sits up, pulled off his shirt, and throws it on the bed. “I’m getting in the shower. I’ll be packed and ready to go in the morning.”

It’s still dark out when Sam feels a hand shaking his foot and his father’s voice gruffly announcing that it’s time to go.

Dean’s usually already up with most of the car packed by the time they wake Sam, so he’s surprised to find his brother hunched over his bed, mostly undressed and struggling to put on his socks with one hand.

“Help your brother,” their dad grunts at Sam as he continues to haul gear out to the car. Sam starts to snap out a grouchy response, but he bites it back when he looks over at his brother and feels tiny pinpricks of guilt in his belly. He hates that every time he attempts to buck his father’s lifestyle and choose something for himself, Dean always gets caught in the crossfire.

When John irritably repeats himself, adding that Sam _better get his princess ass up and out of bed and help out his damn brother_ , Sam just barely manages to hold in the acidic retort. He’s never been a morning person. His dad and brother typically wait to wake him up until the last minute, usually just in time for him to curl up in the car and fall asleep again. In fact, it’s only been within the last couple of years that they even bothered waking him at all. Before that, his dad or Dean would carry a still-sleeping Sam out to the car, letting him doze through a couple state lines until they stopped to refuel and eat.

“Here, let me,” Sam says gently, seeing how frustrated Dean already seems. Wordlessly, Dean hands his sock over. Sam knows his brother probably wants to bitch too, can’t be feeling too great with their drug supply low and nothing stronger than Ibuprofen in their med kit to mute Dean’s shoulder pain. But their dad’s got bat-sonar hearing, and if he hears so much as one complaint, he won’t hesitate to smack either one of them upside the head. Or put them on weapon-cleaning duty or PT drills until he thinks they’ve learned their lesson.

Sam kneels down and pulls both socks up Dean’s feet, careful to line up the toes. Dean manages to get his own pants on, refuses to let Sam even try, but allows his brother to help get his shirt on around the sling. A few minutes later, they’re dressed and packed and ready to hit the road.

Ever since their dad had handed the Impala keys over to his eldest son, it’s always been Sam and Dean in the Impala with their dad ahead of them in the truck. Even with his hurt shoulder, Dean insists on driving, which isn’t as difficult as Sam would have thought. With only a little awkwardness, Dean can handle it on his own, but Sam reaches over to work the gear shift next to the steering wheel while Dean pulls out, and then it’s nothing but smooth, black road underneath them from here to Ohio.

Once Dean’s on the highway, Sam slouches against the window, balls up his jacket, and uses as a barrier between his face and the cold glass.

“You good to drive?” he mumbles out, knowing that Dean wouldn’t admit it even if he weren’t, but listening more for the tone than the words anyway. When Dean’s gone too long without sleep, there’s a telltale rattle he gets deep in his voice that no amount of uppers can hide.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Dean replies, sounding awake enough that Sam believes him. Yawning, Sam turns his head and nuzzles into his sweatshirt, able to doze off without worry. Before he drifts off, he feels Dean reach out to ruffle his hair. His brother often needs that physical reassurance and contact after they’ve had a fight. Sometimes Sam will push Dean’s hands away because he can’t stand how much Dean always needs to know that things are okay. Because sometimes they’re _not_ okay, and nothing Dean can do is going to suddenly cause Sam’s life to make sense.

But he’s tired, and he figures the fight wasn’t Dean’s fault anyway. So he finds himself falling asleep with the feel of Dean’s fingers in his hair, callused fingertips warm and familiar against his skull.

  __

  
It’s raining when they arrive in Yellow Springs. They’re staying in a cabin next to a set of old abandoned railroad tracks covered in flooded rainwater and thick mud. Sam sighs, but the cabin is raised off the ground and the roof is in decent shape so at least they don’t have to worry about the rain flooding in. It’s not the worst place they’ve ever stayed in.

There are only two bedrooms with one bed in each, although the beds are big enough to semi-comfortably fit two men if needed. Dean throws his stuff into the same room as Sam but shrugs and says they can switch off taking the couch. Which is stupid. Dean’s shoulder is still bad enough to need a sling, and the couch isn’t in the best shape. But Dean gets weird about Sam doing anything that even hints towards self-sacrifice, so Sam doesn’t offer to let Dean have the bed like he wants to do. Instead, he stays quiet and makes a mental note to just fall asleep on the couch before Dean has a chance to argue.

Their dad’s things are already inside, but the truck is nowhere to be seen. Sam figures he’s already gone to meet whatever hunter-buddy had called them out to this godforsaken town in the first place. Sam doesn’t mind, but Dean’s not used to being left behind, and Sam can hear his brother slamming things around as he unpacks.

Sam puts together some sandwiches from stuff they’d brought in the cooler (turkey and Swiss with lettuce and tomato for Sam and potato chips crunched in the middle for Dean), then grabs a beer for Dean and a coke for himself and waits in the living room. The reception out here isn’t that great, but he manages to get a fuzzy station with some teenage girl detective show. The chick’s got on an AC/DC shirt, which Sam hopes is enough to head off Dean’s complaints about watching a teenage comedy-drama show.

Eventually Dean finishes unpacking and comes in. After pushing Sam’s legs off one end of the couch, he settles in next to Sam with the sandwich he’d grabbed off the counter.

“What is this?” Dean asks after a few moments, making a small motion at the TV. “Seriously, is this what kids are watching these days?”

Rolling his eyes, Sam answers, “You’re not fifty, Dean. We _can_ watch something made after 1983. You know, besides that medical soap opera with the doctor you’ve got a hard-on for.”

“I do _not_ have a - ” Dean starts before shoving Sam with his good arm and rolling his eyes. “At least it’s not mutated cat-warriors.” He then takes a bite of his sandwich and makes a pleased, approving sound through his nose. “Damn, though, this ain’t bad, Sammy. Want some?”

“Yeah, no thanks,” Sam says, scrunching up his nose when Dean holds out his sandwich. “You have the palate of a Labrador, Dean. I swear one day I’m gonna come home to find you munching on a dirty sock.”

Dean grins at Sam, his mouth still full and bits of food in his teeth, and says, “Maybe. Add a little Tabasco sauce and ketchup… who knows.”

Snorting, Sam bumps himself into Dean’s shoulder then immediately regrets it when Dean makes a small hurt noise and winces.

“Sorry,” Sam mumbles while Dean rubs the sore spot.

“Nah, it’s okay,” Dean replies with a frown, and Sam knows his brother’s back to brooding over being left behind. In the past couple years, Dean’s barely missed a hunt, has only really stayed behind when there’s an immediate danger in town and John doesn’t want Sam at risk.

Resentment starts prickling under Sam’s skin again, the kind of hot adrenaline that makes him want to pick a fight with Dean, just to have something to distract himself from the almost-guilt he feels. Something to make Dean stop looking at him like he’s a little kid because Dean’s never quite lost that protective look in his eyes when he looks at Sam, like Sam’s not almost as tall as Dean and just as old as Dean was when their dad started taking him out on hunts.

Dean doesn’t know it, but Sam’s already made up his mind about leaving. Once he graduates, he’s as good as gone. Although he knows better than to tell Dean or his dad about his plans.

Dean finishes his sandwich and makes Sam move to the other side of the couch so he can throw an arm over his shoulders while they continue to watch the teenage detective show that Dean doesn’t hate as much as he pretends.

 

“So… what was she like?” Dean asks a few minutes later. It’s as much honest curiosity as it is a means of distraction, and Sam hesitates before answering.

“Good,” he says. “Nice. I didn’t – god, I didn’t really know what to do, Dean. But she didn’t seem to mind, helped me figure it out, and once we – uh.” He can’t seem to finish, but Dean just laughs and squeezes Sam’s shoulder. He pulls it back so he can grab his beer and take a few swigs.

“Yeah?” Dean says, like he already knows everything Sam didn’t say. “Did she climb up on top, take you for a ride, cowboy? Don’t worry, few more times and you’ll be tamin’ them buckin’ broncos like a pro.”

Sam gives his brother an incredulous look. “Dean that doesn’t even make any sense. You do know broncos are male horses, right?”

Dean’s beer pauses in front of his mouth before he snorts out a “Shaddup” while Sam rolls his eyes. He then nods towards the TV where the tiny blonde detective girl is back on screen, interrogating the school janitor about a rival school team’s missing mascot. “There was this nurse that looked like that back in Omaha – so fuckin’ tiny I could lift her up with one arm, I swear. But kinky as fuck and had a thing for my old band t-shirts. Was always grabbing them from my duffle and trying to get me to fuck her in them.”

Dean’s arm goes back around Sam’s shoulder, and his fingers are warm on the soft part of Sam’s arm, moving in little circles and making Sam shiver just a little. “Did – did you?” he asks, hoping Dean won’t comment on the tiny hitch in his voice.

“Of course,” Dean answers, lips twisted into a hot smirk. “Fuck, the way her tits looked in my shirts, all stretched out across the chest. Hottest thing ever, Sammy.”

Sam can feel his body flush, stretches of heat under his arms and tiny hot needle pricks behind his neck. He’s acutely aware of Dean’s body next to his, although that’s been a recurring theme for a while now. Even when he’d been pressed against that girl, rocking into her soft, gasping body, his mind kept flashing pictures of his brother: Dean after a shower, bare-chested and hair slicked with water. Dean passed out on his bed, naked bowlegs sprawled wide and arms wrapped around his pillow. It’s a thought too awful to ever say out loud, and all Sam can look at right now is the space where Dean’s shirt has ridden up by his hip, golden-toned and freckled, and Sam wants to press his tongue and fingers into that warm patch of skin and – _fuck_ , what’s wrong with him?

He can’t stop thinking about it now. It feels it like an itch under his skin, a compulsion that makes his hand move just a little from where it’s pressed between them, slide right across the skin showing on Dean’s hip. The smooth band of Dean’s skin is warm. Sam knew it would be. For a moment Dean just pauses while Sam tests some new limit between them.

Then Dean’s hand slides out from around Sam’s shoulders as he pushes himself off the couch. Grunts out that he’s taking a shower as he walks away.

 

Their dad gets back a couple hours later with some guy in tow. He’s young; somewhere around Dean’s age. Even his scruffy cheeks can’t hide his baby face, and he grins at both Sam and Dean while John bruskly introduces everyone. The guy looks entirely too upbeat for a hunter, shaking both Sam and Dean’s hands and telling them to call him ‘Logan’.

He’s only been in the hunting game for a few years, ever since he’d moved in with his uncle at the age of seventeen. Right now his uncle’s getting some surgery on a bad knee that had gotten torn up by a Rugaru, and Logan had come down on his own to Ohio to investigate a half dozen strange deaths in the area. All the victims had been found the same way, bodies roughly split open and insides eaten out. Until he’d come down in person, Logan figured it for a simple silver-bullet-to-the-brainpan werewolf case. Up close, however, he’d found the bodies entirely too clean for that, no teeth or claw marks to speak of, and more than just the hearts taken. After a couple days of getting nowhere, he’d called up Bobby who had sent John down to help.

“So what happened here?” Logan asks, gesturing towards Dean’s sling.

“Just a hunt turned south,” John interjects from across the room where he’s taking apart a gun for cleaning. He jerks his chin towards Dean meaningfully and cocks an eyebrow up at Logan. “Better keep an eye out at all times, son, or that might be you. Don’t ever let your guard down, especially not for a pretty face.”

“Yessir,” Logan answers, lips twitching in a good-natured smile. “Believe me, I’ve had my share of trips to the Emergency Room. Which were usually in the form of Uncle Sal with some dental floss and a needle. Maybe some whiskey for the sting if I was lucky.”

Sam watches his father’s mouth twitch as he pushes a wirebrush down the barrel of his shotgun and shakes his head. “Just as long as you shot down some sons of bitches before you went down. Bobby’s vouched for you and I’m counting on you to have my back. Can you do that?”

“Of course,” Logan replies with a nod. “Protect your partner. Think I even got myself a merit badge in that.”

“Yeah, okay,” John says with a snort. “Go rest up, smartass. We’ll do some reconnaissance first thing in the morning. What’s your cover? G-man?”

“Nah, didn’t think I could pass without my uncle,” Logan answers wryly. “Nobody seems to believe I’m old enough to be on assignment on my own. I went in as an environmental studies major from Ohio University, which seemed to work since most of the folks believe it was wild animals that killed those people.”

John makes a face and sighs. “Alright. At least it means I don’t need to wear a suit. I’ll expect your ass on my doorstep at 6 am. Don’t be late.”

“Yessir,” Logan says again, and Sam can’t tell if he’s being sincere or not, although there’s a soft twang in Logan’s voice that suggests he may have acquired his southern manners honestly.

Logan nods at the boys before leaving. Immediately, the atmosphere in the room changes, although Sam can’t quite place what it changes to. When Dean asks their dad if he needs any help, John just shakes his head and tells Dean it’s probably time to get ready for bed. He might be no good for hunting right now, but John expects Dean to be able to answer the phone to vouch for covers and research whatever info they may come across.

While Dean’s busy brushing his teeth, Sam grabs a blanket and curls up on the couch, feigning sleep by the time Dean comes out. He doubts Dean is fooled. They’ve been falling asleep to each other’s breathing patterns since Sam was born. His earliest memory is of his brother curled up next to him in his crib, breathing warm air against his neck.

So Sam isn’t really trying to fool Dean so much as out-stubborn him - which, in his meager arsenal, has always been Sam’s main advantage in a fight. When Dean reaches out to shake his shoulders and mumble that it’s time for bed, Sam burrows himself deeper into the crease of the couch, pointedly ignoring him.

“For fuck’s sake, just take the bed, Dean,” John barks out, and Sam can feel the jerk of Dean’s hand leaving his arm. “You’ve got a hurt shoulder and Sam’s already asleep.”

Sam almost regrets taking the couch now. But Dean obediently shuffles away, and Sam can hear the firm click of the door closing behind him. It feels like a lifetime until morning.

When Logan knocks on the door at 6am sharp, Sam’s the one who answers the door in nothing but his sleeping shorts, hair sticking up and fists rubbing his tired eyes.

“Hey kid,” Logan says, reaching out to slide a hand into Sam’s untamed bedhead. Growling, Sam ducks Logan’s fingers just as Dean comes up behind him, close enough to bump shoulders.

“You gonna let me in?” Logan asks, amused eyes sliding up to meet Dean’s. “Or you testing whether or not I’m a vampire? Because I was already inside yesterday.”

Dean snorts. “Those don’t exist,” he informs Logan coolly. Sam nods in agreement because their father had told them that years ago, and any hunter worth his salt ought to know which creatures are real and which are made up. Dean walks away, which Logan apparently takes as an invitation to step across the doorway.

Sighing, Sam goes into the bedroom to go back to sleep. With Dean pouring himself a cup of coffee, he figures his brother’s up for good and there’s no sense in wasting a perfectly good bed. Especially when the couch’s worn-out stuffing and loose wooden beams gave him a stiff neck and sore shoulder.

After sliding himself under the covers, Sam breathes in the warm, clean scent of his brother. No matter how often Dean bathes, there’s always an under-scent of dark gun oil and earthy sweat, and Sam burrows himself deep inside the comfort of it. He falls asleep within seconds.

He wakes up a few hours later just before he’s got to get out to school. And since school buses shockingly don’t have routes near seasonal tourist cabins, Dean has to drop him off.

\---

The school is small, about 700 students in the one-building, junior/senior high school. His first period teacher has him introduce himself in class, and he mumbles out his name. When his teacher asks Sam where he came from, he shrugs. Despite how often Sam has to answer this question, it always turns him uncomfortable, trying to explain his transient life.

“We move around a lot,” Sam answers. “My family was in Michigan last week. We’re probably not staying here very long.”

“Drifter,” he hears someone mutter in the back, and his cheeks burn as he quickly takes his seat.

The rest of the classes go about the same. It’s a small town, and he’s used to tight-knit communities being suspicious of outsiders, especially those just passing through. It’s fine with him. He’s not really anxious to make friends right now.

At the end of the day, he asks for a pass to the library and walks through the bookcases until he finds a copy of _The Hound of Baskervilles_ , opening it up to page he’d been on at the school and taking a seat near the back window. He’s only been reading for a few minutes when he notices someone sitting outside, their back leaning against the brick building and a lit cigarette between their lips. Their hood it up so Sam can’t tell if it’s a boy or girl, although they’re protected from the worst of the rain by a small roof overhang. A sudden craving twists inside Sam, one that only comes up when he’s over-stressed and worried. Which has become increasing more frequent in the last few months.

Closing his book, Sam gets up and heads outside, easily avoiding the sparse security in this small school. The smoking student looks up warily as Sam approaches, and when he gets close enough, he see there’s a boy underneath the hood.

“Got an extra?” he asks when he’s close enough. Shrugging, the guy reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled package, opening it to offer one to Sam.

“Thanks,” Sam says, pulling out his own lighter and settling himself on the ground next to the silent guy. They puff quietly, and Sam savors the way the smoke fills his lungs, burning a little in his throat since he doesn’t smoke often enough for his body to be used to it. Mostly when things get overwhelming. His dad would definitely disapprove, which is probably part of the reason Sam finds it comforting.

When the bell rings, signaling the end of school, they both stub out their cigarettes and jump to their feet, hiding the evidence as students and staff swarm outside the building. The guy gives Sam a small nod of acknowledgement before walking away, and Sam heads over to where Dean had promised to pick him up.

“You know those can kill you,” Dean comments as Sam slides inside the car, the smell of tobacco still clinging to his clothes and hair.

Sam snorts. “You know what else can kill you?” he answers wryly. “Just about everything we hunt on a daily basis.”

“Touché ,” Dean concedes.

“How’s the hunt going?”

“I dunno,” Dean mutters, expression turning dark. “Dad got home about half an hour ago. Said he hasn’t found any leads yet. They’re gonna go check out the morgue pretty soon.”

It’s pretty obvious that Dean wasn’t included. When they get back to the motel, their dad and Logan are spread out across the small table in the back, photos and notes covering every surface. Dean watches for a moment before squeezing himself in the kitchen and pulling out the ingredients needed to make mac n’ cheese.

Usually Sam would hide out in whatever space was available so he could read or study in peace. Instead, he pulls out his book and curls up on the couch, half-listening to the words exchanged between their dad and the young hunter. Logan seems convinced that they may be up against some kind of spell or possession, although John is doubtful.

“Look, if this were a possession, there’d be sulfur and smoke. And why the hell would a demon go after animals anyway? Especially when there are perfectly good human meat suits walking around?”

“Why not?” Logan argues, looking strangely upbeat for someone on the other end of John’s scorn. “It seems pretty effective. And, I don’t know, maybe they’re looking to harvest organs for something special.”

“Like what? Demon Thanksgiving?” John says, shaking his head. “Look, that doesn’t sound like normal demon behavior. So why don’t we move on to something more plausible, okay?”

“Okay, fine,” Logan says, throwing up his palms in a conceding gesture. “No demons. But witches -”

“ - You gotta be kidding me -”

“- are still _entirely_ plausible. If we can just figure out what it is that’s scooping out peoples’ insides like jack o’ lanterns…”

“As much fun as this wild speculation is, I think it’s time we got ourselves some hard evidence,” John says with a roll of his eyes. He snaps whatever book he’s been reading shut and checks his watch. “Time to check out the morgue. And don’t forget your student ID this time.”

Logan nods absently, looking around until he locates the small plastic card on the counter.

“Is Dean coming?” he asks as he shoves the card into his pocket.

“Dean’s sitting this hunt out,” John says impatiently. “I told you that.”

“Why?” Logan ignores the dark glare Dean throws his way, shrugging at John and adding, “You told me he was smart. Wouldn’t hurt to have an extra set of eyes.”

“Our paper-thin covers are barely enough to get us inside the morgue at all. I’m not risking the job so Dean can have a look-see. Now get your damn coat and let’s go.” John doesn’t wait, just grabs his stuff and goes out the door. Both Sam and Dean know from experience that if Logan isn’t in the car in five minutes, John will leave without him.

Logan hesitates, still glancing at Dean thoughtfully. After a minute, Dean slams the pot on the counter and growls, “What? You waiting for me to pin a medal on your ass for being my Big Damn Hero? Because you’re gonna be waiting a hell of a long time.”

“I just -” Logan starts, but Dean shakes his head and interrupts.

“Back the fuck off, okay. I sure as hell don’t need you ‘looking out for me’ or defending me to my dad. You think this is the first time I’ve had to ride the pine so we can get the job done? You know _nothing_ about me, and you know _nothing_ about my family. You’re just another fly-by hunter-of-the-week, soon to be replaced by another in a couple days. So you get your ass out there and _do your damn job_. Because my dad knows what he’s doing, and if he says I’m sitting out for this hunt, then I’m damn well sitting out for this hunt.”

There’s a stunned, open-mouthed look on Logan’s face that Sam can’t help snickering at, although Logan quickly shakes himself out of it and nods.

“Sure thing,” he says, backing away and grabbing his coat. “Sorry man, didn’t mean to offend. I’ll catch you later.”

Once Logan’s out the door, Dean scowls and mutters, “Asshole.” He dishes the finished pasta out into a couple of bowls then flops next to Sam on the couch and hands his brother his dinner. Dean’s close enough that Sam’s skin once again starts buzzing from the warmth and proximity. There’s a low-grade ache in his groin that Sam has learned to live with ever since he hit puberty, and all he can think about is where he can move to get that skin-to-skin contact his body needs.

Somehow, though, he manages to keep himself under control. Puts his book down to eat his dinner and doesn’t try to slide his hand up Dean’s shirt like he really wants to do.

After a few minutes, Dean sighs and throws his empty bowl on the coffee table. “Can’t fuckin’ sit still,” he mutters. “Gonna go out for a while. Fix the salt lines when I leave, ‘kay?”

“Okay,” Sam says, trying not to feel disappointed as he watches his brother disappear into the rain that hasn’t let up since they arrived.


	2. Chapter 2

Being by himself is only really good when he _wants_ a break, and right now all Sam wants is for his brother to be around. Even if he has been a little pissy lately. But since Dean’s not there, Sam curls back up on the couch with the books on ancient Mayan civilization he’d borrowed from the school library. History has always been his go-to comfort read.

Half an hour later, Sam’s attention is caught by headlights glancing across the slit in the curtain, and Sam turns with a frown. He’s not expecting anyone back so soon, and their cabin’s too isolated for anyone else to drive by for no reason. He waits a little while then recognizes the Impala’s engine and the sound of the emergency break being pulled. When he doesn’t hear the car door open, he carefully glances through a corner of the window and sees the car parked to the side of the cabin. The headlights are off but it’s too misty to make out any figures inside.

It makes Sam feel uneasy. After pulling on a hoodie, he quietly slips out the side door so he can approach the Impala without being noticed. It’s partially hidden in the trees behind the cabin, and with the cloud cover making everything dark and foggy, it’s easy for Sam to sneak up to the car. He stays just inside the tree line until he’s close enough to see what’s happening. The inside is slightly fogged up from the rain, but the cracked windows help keep the condensation from taking over all the glass.

It’s not until Sam is two feet away that he realizes his brother’s got a girl in the backseat. Her top’s off and Dean’s fingers are pressing into breasts spilling out from a lacy top. Their mouths are sliding against each other, and the sounds of both their moans softly spill through the tops of the windows.

Sam should leave. He should definitely leave. But his feet don’t seem inclined to agree with the thought, and they stay firmly planted while he gapes at his brother being shoved against the car door while the girl enthusiastically sucks on his tongue.

Dean’s right arm is still tight inside its sling, folding his arm into his chest, but the girl seems more than happy to make up for Dean’s limited mobility. When she pulls back from Dean’s mouth, licking full lips slanted into a faint smirk, Sam can see her hands move and pull, doesn’t quite comprehend why until she starts sliding back and Dean adjusts himself to make room for her to fit between his thighs.

If Sam ducks and turns his head (which, yeah, that’s exactly what he does) he can see where the girl’s head starts bobbing between his brother’s legs. The back of Dean’s head smacks against the window, a dull thud that matches the sudden thump of Sam’s pulse as he watches the way Dean’s eyes flutter back, lips parting as he starts mumbling things too soft for Sam to pick up.

But he wants those sounds. Wants to be the one making Dean mutter promises and curses to God and the devil, making Dean choke on endorphins and dopamine, finding out what every crease of Dean’s body tastes like.

After a few minutes, Dean’s back arches up and his good arm flails out to press a hard palm against the back dash. His eyes scrunch up and he sucks in a deep breath, cheeks going red as he stutters out silent orgasm, blinking rapidly while the girl stays between his legs, swallowing down everything she’s given.

Dean’s still breathing heavy and deep when the girl slides back into Dean’s lap, mouth latching back onto Dean who wraps his arm around her back, a little less enthusiastic in his post-orgasm state.

It’s about that time that Sam realizes he’s got rainwater dripping through his hair and into his eyes. He’s been unconsciously shivering, breath coming in stutters between the tremors of his body. Sighing and trying to make himself be still, Sam runs a hand through his hair, feels the water slide between his knuckles just as he hears a high-pitched giggle that makes his insides twist in jealousy and dread.

He has to get out of here.

 

Sam hurries inside, eyes narrowed to a squint against the cold rain turning him half-blind. Once inside, he peels off his soaked clothes and hops in the shower, twisting the knobs until it’s as hot as he can stand and ducking his head underneath the steaming faucet.

By the time he comes out, the heat has soaked into his skin, and he can see a slight mist rising off his red-flushed body. Feeling too hot to throw on pajamas, Sam pulls on some boxers and a thin t-shirt and walks out of the bathroom to find Dean laid out on the couch, popcorn bowl on the floor and everything dark except for the glow of the TV making Dean’s eyes glint unnaturally.

Sam hesitates in the doorway for a moment, wanting to join his brother but not sure if he should. Eventually, Dean turns his way and raises his eyebrows at Sam’s lack of movement.

“You left your wet clothes on the bedroom floor,” Dean states. Sam blanches, wondering if his brother’s put two-and-two together and hoping that the extra pleasure chemicals working through Dean’s system have made him too satiated to worry about what his little brother might have been doing outside.

He kinda doubts it, though, especially with the smirk tugging at the corners of Dean’s mouth. Shrugging, Dean adds, “I put ‘em on the back of a chair to dry; figured you didn’t wanna reek of damp mold and give the ladies at school one more reason to steer clear of your scrawny ass. Now get over here, bitch. _Ghostbusters_ is on. And I know what a big fan you are of Sigourney Weaver - especially with the shaved-head look from _Aliens_. You always do go for the freaky chicks.”

“ _Hey_. She was hot in that,” Sam protests, finally walking across the room. He waits for his brother to scoot over, but Dean stays spread out across the couch. After a minute, Sam slides in next to Dean, fitting himself inside his legs and against his chest. It’s been a few years since they’ve curled up like this to watch movies, and Sam’s quite a bit taller than he’d been the last time, but he fits just as well as he’d remembered, his head on Dean’s chest and his brother’s arm resting on his back.

“You cold?” Dean asks, obviously realizing how under-dressed Sam is. The thunder rumbles outside, making the cheap window panes rattle, and there’s no denying the freezing air creeping through the windows and doors. But Sam just shrugs because he wouldn’t give up the feel of Dean’s warm hand on his back for anything.

“M’good,” Sam says stubbornly. He lets himself sink into Dean, feels the amulet that he’d given his brother for Christmas - that Dean never takes off - sliding against his skull. Dean pushes the back of Sam’s shirt up so he can touch bare skin, his fingers tapping out light rhythms against the xylophone curve of Sam’s spine. It makes his skin feel like a live wire, the current of Dean’s body making Sam’s thrum with every contact between them.

He kind of wants to hate Dean. It would be easier if he did. He tries to think about the way his brother’s hand had looked on that girl in the car, fingers in her hair while her head was sunk between his thighs, tries to pull up dark jealousy and anger. But Sam wasn’t wired to hate Dean, not like that. And especially not when he knows, at the end of the day, he’s way more important to Dean than any girl has ever been. It’s daunting, sometimes, to know that Dean’s care and concern for Sam often edges into unhealthy territory, into obsession and addiction.  
But most times, Sam feels like it’s the only thing that gets him through the day.

Sometime between Sigourney Weaver floating off her bed and Rick Moranis turning into a dog, Sam falls asleep with the warmth of Dean’s chest bleeding through his cheek and the sound of his brother’s heartbeat in his ear. When he wakes up to Dean gently shaking him, New York City is covered in toasted marshmallow fluff while upbeat 80s music is blaring through the speakers.

“Come on. It’s your turn to take the bed, and your ass has gotten way too big for me to carry anymore. So alley-oop, Sammy.”

“M’not taking the bed,” Sam slurrily protests. “You’re _hurt_ , Dean. You need to recuperate.”

“I can recuperate on the couch,” Dean answers impatiently. “I’ve had worse.” He tries to get Sam to roll off, but Sam refuses to be moved. “Come _on_ , Sam. Stop being a stubborn bitch about this and get up. It’s your turn.”

“No.”

For a moment, Sam thinks Dean’s going to try to pick him up anyway, hurt shoulder and all. But Dean just ups the heat of his glare and shakes his head before stating, “Fine. I’ll be on the floor.”

Irritation flares under Sam’s skin, and he shoves himself up to glare at his brother. “You’re such a jerk. Look, you’re hurt and it won’t kill me to sleep on the couch for a few nights. And if you’d stop being an asshat for one minute, you’d realize that you need to take care of yourself so you can get back to helping Dad. Who would definitely agree with me, by the way, that you need to be sleeping on something better than this piss-poor excuse for a couch.” Dean opens his mouth to give some kind of retort, but Sam pushes through, refusing to give Dean a chance to argue. “But since I _know_ you’re not gonna let this go, then can we just both take the bed? It’s big enough for the two of us anyway.”

Dean doesn’t look happy, takes a couple minutes to think it through, then gives a huge, defeated sigh and says, “Okay.”

They fall into the bed in a warm heap, Sam muttering threats about how Dean’s ass better stay in the bed and Dean snorting and telling Sam to shut the fuck up already and go to sleep.

When Sam wakes up, he can hear John and Logan in the kitchen, smells coffee brewing, and deduces that they’re probably going over notes. Dean’s still asleep next to Sam, which Sam takes as a bad sign. Dean’s a perpetual insomniac, doesn’t usually get more than four hours a night while they’re on a case. But with John refusing to let Dean do anything other than answer phones and help with their cover, Dean hasn’t found much to use up his nervous energy lately.

Sam can feel Dean’s hand on his back, the same as it always was when they’d shared a bed before, like Dean can’t help reaching out to make sure Sam’s still safe and present. It’s always helped ground Sam when he woke up, sometimes not sure where they were, unfamiliar sheets beneath his cheek and changeable landscapes out the window. But Dean’s hand on his back was familiar. Constant.

Or it used to be.

By the time Sam and Dean stumble out, their dad and Logan are gathering up their things in order to scout around town, talking to the locals and visiting the families of the victims. From what Sam could tell, the trip to the coroner hadn’t revealed much. None of the bodies had been found until days after their deaths, soaked in muddy rainwater and already scavenged by a variety of animals that had started picking at the remains. It made ascertaining which marks were made pre- and post-mortem difficult, especially with the limited small-town resources in Yellow Springs.

It’s the weekend, so there’s no school, and it’s still rainy so there’s nowhere Sam really wants to go. He grabs some cereal and plops down in front of the TV, mind foggy from just waking up. A couple hours later, Dean walks by, putting on his coat and grunting something about going out.

“Where?” Sam asks, and Dean rolls his eyes and shrugs.

“Just out. Make sure the wards are still up, okay? I’ll be back soon.”

The door shuts behind Dean before he can say anything else. Suspicious, Sam takes a look at the notes on the table that Dean had been pouring over. There’s a lot of crime scene photos, pictures of the rain-soaked forest and victims with their insides eaten out like Oreos. But then Sam picks up a map of the woods where all the bodies had been found, red Xs marked for each victim. There’s a light tracing that Sam doesn’t remember seeing before his dad had left - a connecting line between all the victims. His eyes follow the careful lines, a new pattern, and Sam realizes it must have been added by Dean. His brother had connected all the victims into a shape that was missing just one more piece - one last side to what would be a pentagram.

After checking the coordinates for where Dean had placed the last X, Sam realizes that the final piece isn’t too far from their cabin, only about a mile away. He also realizes at the same moment that Dean had gone to check it out. By himself. With a hurt shoulder.

Cursing his brother’s stubborn, bullheaded hero-complex, Sam throws on a pair of boots and a sweatshirt and sprints outside to follow Dean into the muddy woods. Thankfully the rain had stopped so he doesn’t have to battle water in his eyes, but the mud sucks his shoes into the ground, making it hard to run.

He catches up to Dean about ten minutes later, trying to be quiet but finding it hard to keep his shoes from squelching. After half a mile, he sees his brother stop, sigh, and turn around.

“You can come out, Sammy,” Dean wearily shouts out, squinting into the trees. “Hurry up and get your bean-pole ass out here. I know you’ve been tailing me.”

“Of course I’ve been following you,” Sam says as he comes out from the trees. “What the hell are you doing out here anyway, with no backup and a hurt shoulder? You shoulda called Dad the moment you saw that pattern - you know he’s gonna be pissed with you for even coming out here.”

“Dad’s already pissed at me for getting hurt in the first place. What’s one more thing?” Dean replies with a shrug. “Besides, the reception at the cabin sucks, especially with the weather as bad as it is, and I couldn’t get a call through. I’m just checking it out, seeing if I can spot anything before Dad gets back. But you shouldn’t be out here, Sammy. Go back to the cabin.”

Sam rolls his eyes and scowls. “Screw you, Dean. I’m not ten years old anymore. And if you and Dad aren’t gonna let me actually go on hunts, then what the hell has all this training been for?”

“I’m not arguing with you about this,” Dean answers. “Besides, what if Dad and Logan get back to the cabin and we’re both gone?”

“Then they can wait,” Sam snaps back. “And if we’re just checking this out and going back, we should only be a few more minutes anyway. But I’m not going back without you.”

Dean frowns and scrubs a hand across his cheeks, sighing in a way that means his resolve is wavering. “Fine,” Dean eventually growls out. “Although, just saying, it would be really easy to drag you back by that overgrown mop on your head.”

A wry laugh puffs from Sam’s lips and he shakes his head. “You know what, Dean? Go ahead and try.”

Dean’s frown deepens as he throws Sam a narrow, focused look, forehead creased like he didn’t know when Sam had stopped being twelve years old. Had somehow missed when Sam had gotten too big to tuck under his arm.

It makes Sam feel smug, and he strides past Dean, walking further into the woods until Dean comes up on his left, GPS unit in hand.

They don’t find anything at the coordinates. Just more forest and wet leaves. They scout around for a bit, although neither one of them knows what they’re looking for. Despite the lack of findings, however, Sam still has an uneasy feeling about the place. The forest-sounds seem a little off; the ground too still and quiet while the bird cries overhead pierce like police sirens, startling both Sam and Dean every few minutes.

Eyes focused on the trees, Sam looks around at the murder of crows overhead, a dark cloud of black the blocks out what little light had made it through the clouds. It makes him uneasy, and obviously Dean, too. But since the birds aren’t doing much more than letting out the occasional annoying screech, they both eventually ignore the feathered annoyances and continue scouting out the area.

While Dean’s hunched over, poking through rocks and leaves, Sam turns his way, hesitating for a moment before he says, “You know, if you actually did get hurt enough to never hunt again - or, well, if you chose to walk away - it’s not like you don’t have other options, Dean.”

“ _What_?” Dean asks, turning to look over his shoulder and throwing Sam a confused, annoyed look. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your _options_ ,” Sam says, pushing through despite the dark scowl on Dean’s face. “Look, you’re not just a grunt. You’re smart, Dean - I mean, obviously you saw that pattern after Dad and Logan have already been pouring over this hunt for days.”

“Yeah… _smart_ ,” Dean echoes with a soft snort, straightening his legs and turning to fully face Sam. “Smart enough to drop out of school, get myself hurt on a hunt. I don’t know what kind of options you think I have Sam, but from where I’m standing, I don’t have jack shit. Hunting is all I know. It’s the only thing I’m good for.”

“No,” Sam refutes sharply, stepping behind his brother. “Hunting is all Dad _let_ you know. And the moment you’re less than one-hundred percent, he drops you like a bad habit.”

“Do we really have to do this now, Sammy?” Dean growls out, and he turns around, crowds into Sam’s space so Sam can see the flare of heat in his cheeks. “Can you cut the teenage-grunge, I-hate-my-parents-angst for one minute? It’s not like we can afford to make a mistake on a hunt. Our lives are at stake every second we’re on the job. Dad needs someone he can count on to have his back, and if I can’t do it right now, then yeah, he’s gotta find someone else.”

“Like Logan?” Sam says, sneer in his voice because he doesn’t understand how his brother can just follow their father with such blind faith. No matter how many promises John breaks or how many times he comes stumbling home drunk, or even when he loses his temper and blames Dean for things that he has no right putting on his brother… Dean’s never shook his belief that their dad was a superhero. Some combination of Batman, Superman, and Van Helsing that their dad has never quite lived up to, but Dean needs to believe in none-the-less. Sam hates Dean for letting their dad’s opinion mean so much to him.

“How would you rate Logan’s performance as a replacement-you? Because he’s already got the _yessir_ s and _nosir_ s down. Although he’s not quite as K-9 obedient. But you know what, I think Dad kinda likes the challenge.”

“God _dammit_ , Sammy!” Dean grabs Sam by the collar of his sweatshirt and slams him against the nearest tree, teeth bared and fingers tight. “Why do you always gotta push everyone’s buttons?” The bark of the tree cuts through the back of Sam’s sweatshirt, digging into his shoulders and hips as Dean keeps shoving him back as hard as he can with his one arm. Sam can hear angry _caws_ in the branches above him, shrill sounds that make it hard to think as Dean practically chokes him with his collar while demanding: “Make up your fucking mind. What am I? Genius tracker? Mindless soldier? Tell me, Sam, which is it?”

Sam swallows back something that tastes like splinters and shakes his head, bangs falling into his eyes. “You don’t need me or anyone else to tell you what you are,” Sam answers with a glare. He reaches up to grab a hold of the hand still fisting his collar. “That’s the _point,_ Dean.”

A frustrated, exasperated sound grates up Dean’s throat, and his hold on Sam’s sweatshirt loosens as the fight fades from his eyes. “What do you want from me?” he asks tiredly. He looks like he’s about to walk away, and _god_ , Sam’s so tired of Dean not getting it, never understanding what Sam wants.

So he grabs the back of Dean’s neck, pulls him in, and kisses him.

For about thirty seconds, it’s the greatest thing Sam’s ever experienced. Dean’s mouth is soft and wet, and he’s surprised enough to stay still and relaxed as Sam slides their mouths together, sucks on Dean’s plush lower lip, takes everything Dean’s willing to let him have.

But then the thirty seconds end, and Dean shoves Sam back hard enough that his head snaps back into the tree, his ears ringing through the sharp pain.

“What the hell, Sam!” Dean starts, but the shrill bird calls start up again, growing loud enough to drown out the rest of what he’s saying, and they both look up.

The branches above them are covered in birds, a wide mass of shiny black crow feathers and glinting dark eyes. When one of them swoops down hard against Dean, he whips his hand out, tries to smack it away. But then more start swooping down, and before they know it, there’s a mass of avian creatures circling Dean, hard beaks scratching the sides of his face, slicing pieces of his jacket.

Sam’s unsure what to do - he has a semi-automatic in the back of his jeans, but he can’t shoot at the crows without risking hitting his brother. He looks around frantically, spies a broken-off branch on the ground and dives for it. Trying to avoid Dean’s wild flailing, he swings it at the cloud of crows surrounding his brother, manages to clear enough space around Dean that he can grab his brother and shove him forward, towards the cabin.

It’s a hard fight to get to the tree line; Sam keeps swinging his branch while Dean tries his best to take out a few crows with his pistol, but he’s too busy running to have great aim. Just as Sam thinks they’re done for, they make it to the end of the woods, back to the clearing where their cabin stands. For some reason, the crows don’t go beyond the tree line, and Sam’s honestly not sure what to make of it, he’s just glad to be safe and relatively unharmed.

He and Dean run inside the cabin, making sure the salt lines and protective charms are all in order before they assess each other’s wounds.

Dean got the worst of it. Deep cuts along his cheeks and neck, and a few dozen shallow scratches in his arms. Needless to say, his coat’s done for.

Sam peels off Dean’s bloody shirt and picks the feathers out of his hair, pulls out the med kit and starts smearing on antiseptic cream and taping on bandages. There are a few lacerations deep enough to make Sam debate whether or not they need stitches, but they’re small enough that he tapes some butterfly bandages over them and hopes for the best.

Over Sam’s protests that he’s fine, Dean insists on checking him out too, although other than a few minor scratches, Sam’s okay. But it doesn’t stop Dean from patching up every scrape and bruise, no matter how small.

When their father gets home, he takes one look at them and growls out, “What happened?” while glaring at his oldest son.

Dean squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath in. “We were in the woods. I had, uh, noticed a pattern with the victims. I thought I knew where the next attack would happen and…”

“And you decided to take your brother?” John fumes, striding across the room to take a closer look at the bandages on Sam’s neck.

“They’re nothing,” Sam insists, trying to pull away while John grabs him by the shoulder to keep him still. “Just some birds…”

“Crows?” Logan interrupts, and Sam darts a surprised glance at him.

“Uh… yeah,” he says.

“Witch familiars,” John says with a growl. When he seems satisfied with his examination, he lets go, turns back to Dean. “I expect you to watch out for Sam while I’m gone and use some goddamn common sense. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I ran after Dean on my own,” Sam jumps in before Dean can. “And the phone lines were off.”

“That’s no excuse,” John spits back. “If you can’t get ahold of me, you wait - ”

“For more people to die?” Dean interrupts with a frown. “Look, Dad, I’m not gonna sit by while people get gutted and eaten. And I’m sorry that Sam came along, but we’re alive, okay? We know how to look out for each other.”

John shakes his head, an irritated set to his jaw. His voice is slow and hard as he says, “Dean, you are lucky to be alive. When I tell you to sit out, you damn well better sit out.”

“Yeah. I know,” Dean answers with a sigh, his voice going quieter. “I know, Dad.”

There’s a long pause, John looking between his boys like he’s not sure whether to check their wounds again or start handing out punishments. After a few agonizingly awkward minutes, Logan clears his throat and announces, “We, uh, traced the attacks to the local PTO organization. The co-Presidents are practicing witches.”

“You gonna gank ‘em?” Sams asks curiously, turning away from the tension between his brother and dad to look at Logan. Witches are tricky creatures; hard to kill and harder to avoid being killed by.

“Tonight,” John says, voice still gruff. “They’ve got a meeting, so we’ll corner them there and light ‘em up.”

\---

John and Logan take them out together, set them on fire in the school’s gym then go out for drinks afterwards. School’s probably going to be cancelled the next day (if not longer) because of the damage, but Sam doesn’t really care. He’s done with this town.

Dean leaves, too. He hasn’t been able to look Sam in the eye since the kiss in the woods, has avoided Sam as much as possible.

Dean stumbles back to the cabin first, late enough into the night that Sam’s in bed, although he hasn’t done more than stare at the ceiling for the past hour. He figures Dean will probably take the couch, but then Sam hears the creak of the door opening, smells the thick odor of whiskey on Dean’s breath as he strips down and slides into bed. His palm slides to rest on Sam’s back, like he still needs that assurance, and Sam closes his eyes and relaxes into it.

Their dad’s much louder; stumbling and groaning when he returns, and Sam can hear Logan helping his dad make it to his room before going to crash on their couch, probably a little tipsy himself.

\---

The next morning, Sam gets up quietly while everyone sleeps off their hangovers, makes himself some cereal and sits at the kitchen table while reading through his science textbook. When he’s finished, he makes some toast, eggs, and coffee for when everyone wakes up, which he thinks is pretty generous considering he’s pissed at all of them. But he’s also anxious to get back on the road, leave this place behind, and he’d like everyone in decent condition to drive soon.

However, when John gets up, he announces that he’s got another case as well as some possible demon-related activity going on down south, and he’ll be leaving before sundown. Alone.

“Why the hell do we have to stay here?” Sam fumes back.

“Because that’s what I decided,” John sharply answers. “Besides, I thought you’d be happy about staying in one place for more than a couple days. You think I like yanking you out of school all the time?”

“If it’s even open,” Sam retorts. “You burned it down.”

“Just the gym,” Logan interrupts helpfully.

Sam glares at Logan while Dean asks if they need to check anything out in town when John leaves.

“No, Logan’s sticking around to make sure the coven doesn’t reconvene with their leaders gone,” their dad replies. “Although the chances of that are pretty low; the co-Presidents were the only ones with any real power. And Logan promised to stop by a few times, keep an eye on you boys.”

“We don’t need a babysitter,” Dean mumbles, which is exactly what Sam was thinking.

“Too bad,” Logan says with a wry smile. “Because I’m pretty kickass at Battleship.”

“You boys better behave while I’m gone,” John warns. “Logan’s just making sure things stay quiet around here. You both got attacked in the woods just behind here, so I’m not taking any chances. I should be done in a week or so.”

\---

School ends up closing early because of the fire damage. After trying to call his brother from the front office and getting no answer, Sam catches a ride from the city bus. It’s a long walk from the stop to the cabin.

Sam’s starting to wonder if it ever stops raining here. He jogs most of the way, careful to avoid mud puddles and staying near the line of the woods since the tree cover keeps the worst of the rain away.

He’s soaked when he arrives at the cabin. Tiredly, he opens the door, leaving his wet backpack near the front and intent on taking a hot shower before wrapping himself up in a sweatshirt and sitting next to the heater. But strange sounds have him curious, soft grunts coming from the master bedroom, which Dean had decided to use since there was a good chance their dad wouldn’t be coming back to use it again.

Apprehensively, Sam walks past the kitchen to where the bedroom door is thrown wide open, its occupants obviously thinking they’d have more time alone and no reason to be discrete. He’s stunned by the sight inside, has to steady himself against the doorframe because his legs suddenly have trouble holding himself up.

His brother’s on his hands and knees on the bed, forehead to the mattress while Logan’s hands are tight on his hips as he fucks Dean from behind. Low words of endearment and praise are peppered out across Dean’s back from Logan’s lips which trail across the golden smattering of freckles.

Dean’s a lot louder than he was in the car, sounds punched from his chest and moans floating through the air.

Sam must have made some kind of sound, because Logan suddenly turns around to see Sam dripping in the doorway. Stilling his pistoning hips, he croaks out, “Sam. Um - shit, this…”

Dean jerks at the sound of Sam’s name, twists around towards the door, but Sam decides that he can’t be there anymore, and he dashes from the doorway, running out the door and back into the rain. But since Sam’s really tired of soggy clothes and damp skin, he ends up inside the Impala, sitting shotgun because it’s safe and familiar and his.

It’s only five minutes later that Dean comes bursting through the front door, looking frantic for about thirty seconds until he spots Sam sitting inside the car. Visibly relieved, Dean strides over, opens the driver’s side door and slides in next to Sam.

Neither of them say anything for a long time. Eventually, though, the questions in Sam’s head grow too loud, and he blurts out, “ _Why_?”

“I don’t know, Sammy,” Dean answers with a sigh. “I just… I know I’m fucked up, okay?”

Jaw tight, Sam turns to glare at his brother. “You _hate_ Logan,” he says angrily.

Rolling his eyes, Dean answers, “I don’t _hate_ Logan.”

“Well you sure as hell don’t _like_ Logan,” Sam mumbles. Bitterly, he adds, “Are you really that much of a whore? Willing to spread it for anyone who asks?” Laughing humorlessly, Sam shakes his head and adds, “Well, anyone except me.”

“You’re my _brother_ ,” Dean immediately replies. “Sammy, you gotta know how messed up that is.”

“Yeah. I know,” Sam answers. “It’s messed up. Big time. But... are you saying ‘no’ because it’s wrong or because you don’t want me?”

Dean doesn’t seem to have an answer for that, just sighs and look down at his lap, green eyes lost and overwhelmed. And because Sam figures there’s absolutely nothing left to lose anymore, he slides himself right into Dean’s lap and kisses him.

Dean starts to push Sam away, tries to pin his arms back. But Sam’s nothing if not stubborn, and once he’s got the taste of Dean in his mouth, he refuses to let up. Until finally - _finally_ \- Dean gives in and starts kissing Sam back, grabs onto Sam’s ass with his hand so he can pull Sam closer, like there’s any possible way for their mouths to be pressed tighter.

Sam’s mouth is buzzing, tingling with how good Dean is at this. When his brother’s teeth clamp around his lip and pull, Sam moans into it, can feel his cock hardening against his brother’s stomach.

“Fuck, Dean. I want…” Sam starts frantically trying to open Dean’s jeans, scrambling for more. But Dean stops him, shaking his head and grabbing Sam’s hands. Sam fights him for a few seconds, but Dean’s hold on his wrists is tight and uncompromising.

“Wait - Sammy, just a - ”

Sam pulls back, breath panting and harsh. He feels betrayed, hates that he got so close, had believed this was real until Dean decided to yank the rug out from underneath him.

“This isn’t me saying ‘no’,” Dean says, letting go of Sam’s wrists, hands sliding down Sam’s torso to rest on his hips. “But this can’t be the way it goes down. I still smell like Logan, and Baby’s awesome, but it’s cramped in here.”

“We could go in the backseat,” Sam offers quietly. He feels his pulse quicken with the thought of his brother laying him out back there, smooth leather on his back and Dean’s warm body on top.

Dean gives him a wry grin and he opens the driver’s side door, sliding himself out. Before Sam can follow, Dean goes to his knees, mud soaking into his frayed jeans as he scoots Sam to the edge of the seat, fits himself between Sam’s legs.

As soon as Dean’s mouth parts around Sam’s cock, Sam’s eyes roll up and his fingers slide into Dean’s short hair. His brain shorts out, stuck on repeat because it’s _Dean’s mouth_ on him, and he doesn’t even know if it’s good, can barely process anything beyond _warm, tight, Dean_. It’s an embarrassingly short time before he comes, can’t even think to warn his brother, but Dean grabs onto Sam’s thighs and swallows, and _fucking hell_ Sam doesn’t think he’s ever shot so hard in his life.

Dean leans back, wiping the edge of his mouth with his thumb, looking up at Sam with faint pride, like Sam’s the most important thing in his life. Then a smug grin breaks out on Dean’s face, probably in response to the dazed expression still on Sam’s face.

“That good, huh?” Dean laughs as he helps tuck Sam back into his jeans. He gets off the ground, his pants legs almost entirely soaked with mud, and they head back inside.

Logan’s nowhere to be found, which Sam appreciates. He’s pretty sure that if saw the guy’s face again, he’d start swinging.

Dean makes himself scarce for the rest of the day. Showers, heads out for a beer-and-food run, and is generally pretty quiet when he gets back. Sam goes to bed worried that Dean’s going to pretend the whole thing never happened. But then, just as he’s sliding himself under the covers, Dean appears in the doorway. He hesitates for a moment, like he’s not sure how he got there. But then he crosses the floor, stands right in front of Sam.

“This is what you want?” he asks.

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam says, trying not choke back the too-obvious eagerness in his voice. “It’s what I want.”

“Okay then.”

He crawls into bed with Sam, pins him down and works his mouth against Sam’s until both their lips are bruised and puffy. Dean lets Sam flip them over, careful of his still-healing shoulder. As Sam pushes himself down Dean’s body, rucking his shirt up and pulling down Dean’s sleeping shorts, his brother just lies back. That more than anything turns Sam excited, ready to find out how his brother squirms and moans underneath him. When Sam gets his mouth over Dean’s flushed, half-hard cock, Dean makes a soft, whimpering sound, thunks his head back while Sam attempts his first ever blow job. It’s messy, and probably not at all great, but as he licks around the head and jacks the base with his hands, his brother’s dick keeps leaking out precome as Dean writhes beneath him, and Sam keeps going. Sucks him down his throat until Dean’s hand flails down, grabs a handful of hair as he shoots down Sam’s throat.

Sam swallows then slides back up Dean’s body, clamps his mouth on Dean’s shoulder and ruts against his hips until he comes, too, panting and sweaty against his brother’s body.

\---

The shrill sound of the phone ringing wakes Sam the next morning, and he feels Dean untangle himself from the sheets so he can get up to answer it.

It only takes two seconds - long enough for Dean to get out a couple ‘yessirs’ - for Sam to figure out that it’s their dad. When Dean gets off the phone, he tells Sam that their dad wants them to hook up with Pastor Jim so he can meet up with them in a couple days. Dean looks like he’s bracing for some kind of argument from Sam, but Sam’s not really attached to this town, wouldn’t really mind seeing it disappear in the rearview mirror.

They hit the road about an hour later while it’s still dark, light washing over the horizon. Sam settles into the passenger seat, wondering what’s gonna happen when they see their dad again. If Dean’s gonna remember all the reasons they can’t do this.

But Dean gives him a small smile, ruffles his hand in Sam’s hair, and says, “I can hear you over-thinking all this. Stop. No matter what, it’s still you and me, ok?”

Sam’s not so sure. Dean’s notorious for sweeping things under the rug, refusing to deal. But he figures he knows his brother well enough to know when and how to push, and Sam’s not giving Dean up without a fight. So he leans into Dean’s hand and huffs out a small laugh. “That a promise?”

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean answers, sliding his hand down to trace Sam’s mouth, soft around the edges. “That’s a promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments always appreciated! ♥

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [rain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2600642) by [risowator](https://archiveofourown.org/users/risowator/pseuds/risowator)




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